


counterculture

by eelyk



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: 2000s, Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), Depressed Spencer Reid, Explicit Language, Gen, POV Second Person, POV Spencer Reid, Recreational Drug Use, Sad Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid Fluff, i don’t know how to work this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28416141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eelyk/pseuds/eelyk
Summary: Pasadena, 2001: Spencer Reid is 20 years old and only steps away from his dream of becoming an FBI agent. Just about to complete his Sociology doctorate at California Institute of Technology, his favorite professor gives him the name of what could have been one of his most promising pupils, (Yn), challenging Spencer to turn this burnout into the Honor Roll student they have the potential to be.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. counterculture

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so i obviously finally got around to posting these chapters on here lol. After my failed attempt on tumblr I wasn’t feeling too hot. I’m still working on finding my way around Ao3, but i’m vibing so :P. Also tw: drug mention/usage and language

The morning wasn’t anything special. Well at least not to you. It was boring and the Pasadena mornings were always humid, causing your hair to get fuzzy on your way to class. Not to mention your clothes would just stick to your body at even the thought of sweat. It was bright and too cheery. You hated Pasadena mornings, or maybe just California mornings or maybe just California in general. 

The more temperate weather of Washington DC called out to you on this beautiful fall day. You reminisce on the cool tile floors and high ceilings of your Virginia home while getting ready. Before you knew it, you somehow got dressed and managed to not look as high as you felt. 

Maybe that was why the mornings were too bright, you were just coming down.

The repetitive sound of the rubber on your boots making contact with the pavement was somewhat comforting, the deep maroon color of the shoes somewhat hidden by the acid wash jeans, cuffed once to keep the ends off the ground. You couldn’t really afford another pair of jeans, but that didn't stop the old pair from ripping a bit at the knees and between the thighs, but they were still wearable. An older band T-shirt is tucked in those jeans, the awkward shape of the black belt around your waist too much to deal with this fine morning. 

Campus isn’t too far away, and a college student rolling down the sidewalks during this time of year is fairly common. A burlap messenger bag is half hazardously closed and you throw it over your body. Taking off on your brother’s old skateboard, you begrudgingly start another day. 

The courtyard was as busy as ever. Students throwing frisbees, studying under trees and running around. It looked like a scene straight out of Legally Blonde, a movie that you will never admit you watched, or burned off onto another disc to watch it whenever. If anyone somehow found out, you would just say their roommate dragged them out to the theater. 

Going on a brainless tangent while on a skateboard, in a court yard full of other mindless half-adults isn’t a good idea. A sentiment only realized after you crashed right over another unbothered student. Tumbling right over him and landing on your ass. 

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” It’s a squeaky voice, but it sounds Masculine.

“Well you should watch where you’re sitting.” You retort, not really looking at your victim. You are still sitting on your ass on the ground, but the owner to the other voice stands up. Your mind can’t really handle the stimulus while under influence, it’s hard to keep up with the other person.

Your eyes move up from the strangers sneakers, past his khaki pants.   
He’s shoes match his belt but the shoes are converse?

“The courtyard is a common student area.” His voice cracks again, drawing your eyes up onto his face. “besides skateboarding isn’t allowed on campus.” 

The stranger keeps rambling, he’s going on about riding skateboards without the proper equipment. He seems very familiar but you can’t place his name. Instead, you take the time to study his face, not really listening to a thing he says. 

His hair is smooth and a beautiful shade of brown. It grows just short of his eyebrows. Not well taken care of, but he’s a guy that is somewhat socially acceptable so it wasn’t too far off. His eyes are deep set and almond shaped. The color takes some time to place, brown? Green? He has a smallish button nose, like a chipmunk’s. His cheekbones are apparent and there’s a dimple on his chin. His lips are plush and pink. Almost kissable?

‘How high am i?’

The stranger must’ve not noticed you absolutely not listening and just gawking over him. Somewhere, your brain tunes back in. Then panic. 

“What time is it?” You ask, frantic. 

“What?” He exasperated, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. 

“What…” You begin, slowly standing up to your full height. “time is it?” You brush off the leaves and grass that accumulated on your legs during your time on the ground. The stranger fumbles with his watch. 

“Um..” His fingers adjust the watch. “2 minutes to 8:30?” It’s phrased like a question, obviously the turn of interaction still frazzling. 

‘Shit’  
“Shit” you repeat, out loud this time. You scramble for the skateboard and make sure all of your belongings are all together before running off in the direction of your english class, leaving the handsome stranger confused and in their dust. 

He sighs and picks up the book that tripped the skateboard, there’s a noticeable divet on the hardcover, but it’s fine. 

You get there just in time for the lecture, of course everyone is staring. That usually happens when one almost runs over the janitor trying not to be locked out of a class. You huff and look around. The only seat left is in the front row, right in the middle. Perfect. 

You shuffle over to the desk and throw your bag to the ground and plop on the small chair. You get out your notebook and a pencil and look expectantly at the professor. 

Professor Roderick Wilson was a short man. Standing at a solid 5 feet 6 inches, his head reaches about the middle of the white board in his room. He’s balding, but has the most unruly beard you have ever seen. It’s bright red and you swear you see a new curl pattern every time you look at him. The other professors in the English department nicknamed him “Santa Clause”.

Not without good reason of course, he’s a honest man with a good heart, but he’s still the worst teacher you’ve had. 

The class was easy enough, just some test prep. You hadn’t eaten this morning so as soon as you were dismissed you hustled to get all of your supplies in your bag and speed walked out of the lecture hall. However, Professor Wilson stopped you right as you were about to walk out the door. 

You spun on your feet and faced the older man, smiling politely, if you were compliant, you’ll be getting your croissant from the cafeteria faster. 

“Yes, sir?” You hear your voice go to a slightly higher tone. 

“I just wanted to talk to you about your paper you turned into me two days ago.” He rubbed his chin and motioned for you to follow him into his office. 

You couldn’t help but wonder how he grades his work so fast, especially considering you turned it in two days late. You stepped into his office, gripping the strap of your bag tightly. Something about being cornered in a teacher's office always makes you want to haul tail in the other direction. 

You sit opposite the Professor. Your legs are bouncing involuntary. You see he is fiddling with a Manila folder placed neatly on his desk. He’s nervous, the hairs on your neck rise to attention.

“First off, I want to say it was the most well thought out paper I read out of your class.” His bright green eyes shined with pride, this brought a small smile to your face. You barely managed to respond with a polite ‘thank you’ with a curt nod. 

“No really! It probably would’ve earned a perfect score.” Your face fell a bit at the word “would’ve”

”I mean the analysis was there and you caught on to the red herrings littered in the novel. Most students used those to defend their point!” His jolly laughed filled the room, it’s contagious and you huff out   
a laugh to yourself. Almost distracting you from the most likely bad news that would come next. 

Wilson calms down a bit, and his expressions turn a bit darker. “But it was late.” He states, not necessarily complaining, but authoritative. 

You shrink back at his words. His glasses that were perched at the bottom of his nose almost fall off. Any other time, you would’ve joked about it and moved on, but the rejection sensitivity settles in your stomach. Wilson takes your silence as a cue to go on. 

“Honestly, you’re lucky I even accepted the paper at all.” Almost as though the professor can feel your anxiety radiate off of you, he quickly adds a “But your writing is always something I look forward to reading.” 

You smile politely. Staying silent, you wonder if it’s a trained behavior at this point. You try to resteady your brain by counting the letters on Professor Wilson’s nametag. There’s 16. 

“Although very good. I had to deduct points for tardiness.” He finally shows you the paper. Written across the top in purple pen is something along the lines of perfect, but that is overshadowed by the blaring C- in Red across the top. 

“But I didn’t just bring you in here to show you your results. I did have one more point.” You nod along to his words, still staring straight at the grade. 

“This essay accounted for much of your overall grade this semester. Only lighter than your final.” He's stalling, you just know it.

“Sir, will you please just get on with it?” Your anxiety comes off as anger. Your teeth are grinding against each other by this point. 

“You’re now failing my class.” 

Ah, there it is. The first class you are actively failing. You smile politely but feel like you’re about to puke. 

“Okay, thank you, sir… excuse me but I have to go.”  
You have to leave, now. You gather your bag and rush out the door. Barely remembering your skateboard on the desk. You push past someone, you mumble an apology and beelined to the restroom. This was not a good day. 

——-  
The first thing Spencer notices walking into Professor Wilson’s office is the very flustered student running away from the room. The familiar head of (hc) rushing away from Spencer.   
Déjà vu. He frowns.

Spencer wanders into the office the person just ran from. He peeked his head in and knocked with his left hand, showing the doughnuts. The professor smiles slightly at the sight of one of his favorite students from last year. He invites Spencer in without a problem. 

The two make light conversation, they felt like they had known each other all their lives. When the topic of Spencer’s impending application to the FBI training program. 

“To be honest, I’m kinda nervous about the physical part of it yaknow?” He says, ironically, while taking another bite of his chocolate glazed, rainbow-sprinkled doughnut. Professor Wilson nods along. 

“I’m not the most buff guy out there.” He wiggles his arms for effect. Wilson releases a fairly genuine laugh.

“Oh I’m sure it will be no problem. And if you’re counting the brain as a muscle you’re the strongest man I know.” Spencer grins at the affection from the older man. His eyes scour down to the Professor's desk. The paper right on top is typed in perfect MLA format, stapled together. It seemed to be about 11 pages long. The pen over top the title contradicts the grade it was given. Spencer skims the first page. He points to it. 

“What’s that?” It may seem unprofessional, but the closeness of the two men seems to trump that as Wilson was quick to respond.

“It’s just a paper from one of my students, quite bright if I might say.” The professor picks the paper off his desk and looks up to Spencer. 

“May I?” Spencer asks, holding his hand out to the professor. He shrugs and hands it over. The room is taken in silence as Spencer reads it over. 

It was nothing special, but nothing average either. The essay gave the profile of the writer being one with at least above average intelligence, common for an Ivy League school. Spencer flips over the last page and the other man in the room sighs. 

“Such a waste.” He mumbles, shaking his head.

“How so…?” Spencer doesn’t really understand. His brain managed to put together that the student from this morning and about 7 and a half minutes were the same person. 

“It’s just disappointing. Seeing such a young person just lose interest in obtaining higher education.” Wilson’s forest green eyes darken a bit. It warms Spencer’s heart to see a man so committed to his job. 

“I don’t think you should worry about it much. They ran me over with their skateboard this morning…” Spencer trails off, quickly adding a “and didn’t apologize!” To the end. The professor laughs it off. 

“They just came into my class with such roaring reviews from their former teachers. Guess I’m losing my touch.” The older man jokes as he rubs his face. 

The sight of his mentor in a state of sense self doubt lit something within Spencer. His eyes dance across the walls, they are littered with ribbons and plaques. Letters from former students and pictures of Professor Wilson with the most important people you can think of. Honestly, this man is a superhero. 

“Hey it’s not your fault they are being a bad student! Only about 5.78 percent of the population are currently enrolled in college…” his hands are fumbling around now. “And out of that percent only about 60% do end up graduating.” 

The professor holds up his hand, a quiet tell for him to stop rambling. Spencer pouts. 

“I know son, but this student is just so smart. I guess that’s what makes this one different.” Wilson smiles kindly, his mustache and beard curving upward. The professor obviously wanted the conversation over, but the clogs in Spencer’s head were already turning.

“In a study done by Oxford, it was proven that tutoring, not only improves academic performance, which, I can tell by looking at this paper, is also a problem. But it also helps improve attitude towards school work!” Spencer’s idea seems fool-proof. Tutor this rude ass to get Professor Wilson to stop doubting himself!

“Yes, son, I know the statistics. But I really can’t ask you to do that to make an old man feel better. Maybe this one just needs to slip through the cracks.” 

Something about that last line stays with him, he remembers almost slipping through the cracks. He felt absolutely hopeless before. 

Despite his mask of pure intelligence, there’s always a bigger heart. And now he has somehow developed sympathy for this rude ass. 

“Oh please, Professor, I am ready a tutor. Busy is pretty low right now.” There’s a new hopeful feeling in the room now. 

“Well I guess it would make your shiny FBI application look better…” Wilson does consider it, but the utter absurdity of it all comes crashing down on him. “But have you considered that maybe they don’t want to be helped?” 

Spencer’s mood is immediately crushed, maybe his plan wasn’t foul-proof. But Spencer is anything but a quitter and somewhere in his big mind he had already decided. 

“Well I guess we will find out.” He purses his lips, if this were anymore cliche there would be wind blowing through the office, only hitting Spencer. Hair blowing and cape following through- 

That’s a hero complex. Spencer realizes with a grimace on his face. Professor Wilson looks around awkwardly, tight lipped.   
Snapping out of his brain he realizes the tension that has melted in the office. He clears his throat. 

“Either way I deserve an apology. What’s their name?” This catches the professor's attention, an expression that Spencer can’t quite place comes across the Professors face. Like a cross between cunning and humor, Spencer doesn’t like the look. 

“Yn Ln.” he answers, scribbling the name on a sticky note on his desk. He rips it off the yellow paper and hands it over to Spencer. He fumbles with it and looks at it dumbly. 

“Do you have an email address or something?” Spencer grimaces, this is actually happening. Regret washes over him, but now he gave his Professor hope. And the only thing Spencer truly fears is disappointment.

The rest of the interaction between the two friends are a blur. Spencer goes through the motions of class, already knowing all the material from reading the textbooks months before the school year started. 

Before he knows it, he’s at the library, walking up to one of the school’s god awful computers. The email address given to him is drilled in his brain. He opens the draft tab and begins writing. 

Dear Yn, Okay, good start.   
I heard you were in need of some academic Counseling-...wait that sounds too creepy. Come to think of it, this all sounds too creepy. Was Spencer a creep?  
No, of course not, but he still deletes it and tries again.  
A ‘you ran me over with your skateboard!!’ Seems to brash, this was business after all. Or was it? He was talking to one of his peers… All of the email etiquette rules he had ever learned are pulled to the front of his mind. 

Was dear too formal? How do I even explain why I’m emailing them in the first place??? 

This is way too difficult, even for a people pleaser like Spencer. 

His eyes flicker around the large room, students are surrounding the tables like moths to light, studying behind a backdrop of bookshelves and file cabinets. About six or seven computer sets down, he spots a familiar bag and skateboard at the boot clad feet of a stranger.

Okay great, the universe somehow put (YN) in the exact spot that Spencer needed them to be. Should he approach? Is that actually creepy? He doesn’t really have time to debate much more as Spencer’s glaring eyes caught the students attention. 

Had it not been for the nasty glare they were currently sending Spencer, he would’ve loved to study over faces. People watching is one of Spencer’s favorite pastimes. 

Their clothes were slightly outdated and repaired after years of being worn. Hand Me Downs most likely. The boots were sensible, the creases over the toe prove that they were worn often, but the contradictory deep color meant they were well taken care of. The students' hair was messy and their face was bare, they didn’t really care for their appearance then? Dressing alternatively was somewhere in between a fashion statement and out of necessity. 

It doesn’t, however, take a profiler to notice how tense and angry this person seems to be. Their shoulders are squared and their knuckles are tightly wrapped around the strap of their bag. (Yn)’s eyebrows are furrowed and their eyes narrowed. Oh does he feel bad for whoever is at the receiving end of (yn)’s murderous glare. It wasn’t until that moment that Spencer realizes that they are marching over towards him. 

“Listen, buddy.” They sneer. “I’m giving you one, and only one apology and then you better stop following me around.”   
Wait, was that what they thought Spencer was doing?

“I’m not following you around!” He proclaims, slightly louder than the almost whisper that (Yn) was talking in. Spencer stands up, and (yn) steps closer, pointing a finger at his chest.

“Oh you’re not? What so you showing up to my morning class was just a coincidence? You coming to the library, working on the same row of computers as me is just destiny or some shit?” They were just about yelling now, drawing the attention of multiple students surrounding them. “Oh thank the lord!” They cheer sarcastically, “and here I was thinking-“ 

“Listen, we should probably take this somewhere more quiet.” Spencer’s face settles into a questioning glare, there some authority in his voice too. One deductive glance over (yn)s face says that they aren't buying it. Spencer grips their upper arm in a surge of confidence.

“Unless you want to discuss how you’re failing a class in front of approximately 8% of the student body.” His voice lowers to a deadlier whisper.

Of course, appealing to (Yn)s obvious fear of failure and social anxiety was a low blow, but Spencer is ready to end this conversation and anymore verbal abuse from (Yn)’s side would inhibit that. Spencer takes their silence as compliance and leads them out of the library to the hallway, trying to avoid the look on (Yn)s face. 

“How do you know about that?” The anger in their voice is now gone, replaced with nervousness. They lean against the wall, arms crossed, They are obviously trying to appear relaxed but the tenseness in their shoulders and the staggered feet tell Spencer that (Yn) wants nothing but to get out of this situation. 

Spencer sighs, this is such a bad idea. “Professor Wilson asked me to tutor you.” 

“Why would he do that?” 

“Well, believe it or not, (Yn). Someone has to care about your education, and obviously it isn’t you.” (Yn) finally makes eye contact with Spencer. Had he not been so suddenly angry at them, he probably would’ve let himself admire the deep (ec) color of them. Their eyelashes fluttered around them so gently and soft. 

“First, how the hell do you know my name?” (Yn) starts. “Secondly, who the fuck do you think you are?” Of course they would’ve matched back with the same ferocity as he did, it’s just how conversations worked. And honestly, it was kinda he’s fault, so he shouldn’t be too worked up for them cursing at him. 

“I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, thank you.” Spencer wouldn’t admit it, but he added extra emphasis on the title. However self conscience it made him feel in the past didn’t phase him at this moment. Only showing up the rude ass in front of him. 

“You look way too young to have a PhD.” (Yn) states, almost childlike in the delivery. 

“Well it happens. Now do you want me to help you or not?” 

“Why do you want to help me?” Spencer is very over this interaction. He hates talking to people who answer questions with another question. 

“I told you, Professor Wilson-“ 

“No I didn’t ask about The Professor, he cares too much I already know that.” (Yn) interrupts him, “I’m asking why you, specifically, want to help me.” 

Spencer didn’t really think about it, to be honest, he’s not even sure himself. Of course, he’s got a mild hero complex and the ever-present need to please others, but why actually did he want to help? 

“For Professor Wilson’s sake.” It’s the closest probable reason he can think of, however confused (Yn) feels, they say nothing about it. “He doesn’t need to stress over this.”

“Okay, fine, whatever.” They decide. “I’m free tomorrow at 2pm, meet me at the coffee shop two blocks from campus. Alright?” 

Spencer’s brain is still reeling from the utter roller coaster this has been. He nods blankly, not even questioning which coffee shop across the street. 

Without another word, (Yn) storms back into the library, purposely shoving Spencer’s shoulder with theirs. 

Spencer grunts but doesn’t say anything. Rude ass, he thinks.


	2. Spencer’s Day Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer quickly realized why this relationship isn’t really worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ——-  
> text between these lines are flashbacks, idk how to italize yet but bare with me :(  
> ——-  
> no warnings as far as i’m aware. just message me if there are

After learning that you were failing a class and cornered by some junior detective in the library, you still had a 3PM shift at the local grocery store. Being a grocer isn’t very glamorous, but your father made himself very clear. You can almost hear his deep business professional voice now.   
———-  
“Listen, if you aren’t going to pick up your slack then I’m not paying for anything!” His voice is somewhat muffled over the phone. “Look, I’m not going to fund whatever California dream you have.” 

It’s said laced with some concern. He was never really a doting father, especially not after the Incident. It was tough love from 1st grade. 

“I know, dad. Just please, I’m getting a little stressed right now.” You never liked begging for ‘daddy’s money’, but it’s not like you were spoiled… well that’s at least what you told yourself. 

“Okay whatever.” There’s a moment of silence on the other line of the phone. “I’ll continue paying for your tuition.” 

You celebrate as quietly as you can. Something tells you this isn’t the end of the conversation. 

“But I’m not paying for your rent anymore. It’s about time you take some responsibility.” With that, he abruptly ends the call. No ”goodbye“, no “I love you, sweetie.” Just the defining ringing of the mobile in your ear and the dread settling in your stomach.   
————  
Someone snaps in your face, you must’ve disassociated for a bit while ringing up someone’s groceries. You look up at the customer, she’s an older lady. Her hair is gray and cut around her head like a halo. She wears a yellow floral print t-shirt and a pair of those stereotypical matching capris. She smiles gently. 

“Um, that will be $17.56.” You put on your best customer service voice and smile. She nods along and takes out a checkbook. Oh Gosh. 

As her shaky hands fill out the check, you reach to pack up the items in her reusable bag. It’s pretty basic old-persons stuff. Prunes, lemonade, almonds…

Is this all life is? Just go to school, work and eat prunes until you feel young again? You gag at the thought. 

The old woman hands you the check, you don’t even bother to check it. If this old woman was a con artist, good for her. She deserves some excitement in her life. The receipt prints itself out and she bids you a goodbye. 

The next customer steps up. A white middle aged gentleman, looking about as tired as you were.

Oreos, ice cream and… tampons? You study his items while ringing them up. 

He must’ve noticed you staring as in a quick effort to defend the masculinity you weren’t even questioning he offers a “it’s for my wife.” 

You nod and put on your infamous customer service smile. “How sweet of you.” 

It was as if you proclaimed he was winning a one way ticket straight to heaven. He smiles proudly and genuinely, as if helping your life partner through an all nature process was award worthy.

The rest of the transaction goes by without a hitch. You sigh and look down at the long line of customers.

“Next!” You call. 

You get home around 9. Your shift ended at 8:30 but the walk home was longer than usual. You enter the tall apartment building and take the stairs up to the second floor. The elevator wasn’t all too reliable. 

Dragging your skateboard up the steps, you fumble with your keys as you come to your door. 23B. You slam the door behind you and plop your bag on the ground. You walk into the living room, kicking your shoes off as you do. 

It’s a fairly same studio type apartment. There’s a dark grey sectional where your roommate deemed the living room should be. It’s pushed against the wall facing the small kitchen and room to the bathroom. The two of you couldn’t afford a TV, so the wall separating the living room from the kitchen is bare, there is a TV stand though. The moonlight beams in through the open windows.

You sit in the corner of the couch and lean your head back. You close your eyes and wait.

“Oh you’re home!” The voice of your roommate, Rossie bounces off the walls. It comes from her side of the apartment. 

Rossie is a dental hygienist and she’s 25. That's all you know about her. Her hair is bleached a light shade of blonde, contrasting her olive skin. She is tall and skinny. From the bottom of her feet to the top of her honey brown eyes, she’s basically perfect. 

Honestly, you don’t even know her real name. Rossie was just a nickname she insisted you call her because Ross was her favorite Friends character. She always manages to take off her nametag from her scrub top before she gets home, but a slight peak at her wallet says something along the names of Vanessa or Veronica. 

“Yes, Rossie?” You call from your place on the couch. You look up at her, she’s sitting on a bright purple bean bag chair reading a book. There’s a yellow-toned lamp on the white nightstand further along the wall. The white comforter pops out against the dodgy brick job of the walls. There’s no bed frame but it never bothered Rossie. She dressed in come baggy, love green cargo pants and a white tank top, she must’ve been off today.

“I made some dinner if you want some.” She offers.

“No thank you, I’m not hungry.” You say, before getting up and walking to the bathroom. You’re tired, all you want is sleep. You grab a large t-shirt and shorts to wear to bed on your way. Closing the door behind you, you start up the shower, never once taking the look of utter boredom off your face. 

———-

Spencer got up early the next morning. The fact that he had something to do today so ingrained in his subconscious that he woke up at 5:37, almost a full hour before his alarm. He squints slightly and blindly reaches for his glasses on the nightstand. The book that he fell asleep with tumbles off his arm and drops to the ground. 

Don Quixote, a classic. It’s an old copy, the one his mother bought him when he graduated high school. It had been one of his favorites that year and Diana wanted him to have a copy to take to school. The yellow spine of the book was cracked and showed signs of wear. Of course, Spencer knew he should’ve taken more care of it, especially considering it was a paperback and fairly small, but eight years really does age a book. 

He rubs his eyes under his glasses and yawns, finally bending down to pick up the book and place it on his black desk. Right next to the engineering dissertation Spencer likes to look at when he’s feeling particularly self conscious. It’s protected in a giant purple binder, the title page neatly slid into the clear pocket. He grins slightly at it and pads his way into the kitchenette. 

He starts a pot of coffee and returns to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He didn’t want to bother with contacts until he got dressed and he didn’t have anything much to do until 11:30 when he’s Tuesday class started. 

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he reaches over for his torn open bag of sugar. Spooning in about 7 tablespoons before stirring it and ploping on his desk chair. He turns on the lamp and stares at the wall. 

He didn’t really think this far into his morning plans, he could’ve gone back to bed if anything, but in his daydreaming he somehow already downed half of his drink so sleep wouldn’t come easily. He could just read another book, it’s not like he’ll ever run out. He should probably write his mother a letter…

He decides against it and picks up a random book. The Universe in a Nutshell, Stephen Hawking. More mainstream than he would’ve liked, but the inner theoretical physicist in him was itching his brain. It’s a quick read. He looks at the time on his digital alarm clock, showing that it had only been an hour and a half since he’d got up. He frowns and goes to pour himself another cup of coffee.

Staring at the bleak popcorn wall of his dorm would suffice. It was easy for Spencer to get lost in his own big brain, thinking to himself the hypotheticals of life or really anything else that came to mind. Recently, he found himself replaying his favorite memories with his mother. 

He supposed that maybe writing her again won’t hurt. No, that would mess up his schedule, he always writes before he goes to bed to ensure that it flows as naturally as possible. Talking to his mother is something like walking on eggshells. 

Not that anything would mess up his schedule more, he already woke up an hour early, finished a book and almost a pot of coffee. It’s barely 8 in the morning by now. 

He wonders if the person they met and someone agreed to tutor would run over another student today in the courtyard. Spencer could possibly go down there, see if there is any trouble at all. 

No that’s creepy, he thinks to himself, why am I acting like this all of a sudden? 

Spencer debates this in his head over, he decides that it’s only the right thing to do as campus policy does say that skateboards aren’t allowed. But then again, would he be considered an accomplice? He also doesn’t want another reason for (Yn) to be bitter at their date. 

It’s not a date, is it? No, of course it wasn’t. He was tutoring them. Besides, he wasn’t even the one to set it in place. But Spencer was the one to put the offer on the table. 

Before his brain goes in circles chasing the idea of whether or not Spencer was a budding serial killer, he picks up another book. This time the textbook for his infamous 11:30 class. Of course he had already read over the material but a review couldn’t hurt. 

Spencer spent the morning studying, like any normal college student. Reading over the material from his next class, knowing how uncomfortable it was gonna be. It was an hour til class so Spencer got ready. 

Taking from his millions of white striped button-ups was a matter of which one wasn’t wrinkled. Usually his mother or his sweet elderly neighbor would iron his shirts if need be, but thousands of miles away it’s a hard life out here. He wears a tie, it’s dark green in color and complements the dark grey of his sweater vest. There’s not much else to the Spencer Reid dress code, other than his lace-up chuck taylors which are older but are so much more comfortable than the hell that are men’s dress shoes. He makes it a point to tuck in his tie and untuck his shirt collar. 

His leather satchel has most of the items he needs, so he just grabs it and heads out the door, not before putting another cup of coffee in a to-go thermos.

Arriving to class 15 minutes early never really bothered Spencer… in retrospect. His mother was a professor and preached about her hatred of tardiness but sitting outside the lecture room because not even the professor himself was in the building yet was a pathetic sight. The janitors were giving him weird glances as they passed by with their rags and mops. Spencer pretended he didn’t see them and took a bite of his apple he grabbed from the cafeteria. 

Soon enough another figure peaked out from behind their own door. It’s Dr. Dolares Johnson. She’s a tall woman with a blunt bob. It’s greying and the bangs across her forehead rest above her round frame glasses. Her nose is pointed and she has thin lips, her chin is too small for her face but her cheekbones stand out nicely. Everything about this woman read “professional.” 

She steps further out of her door, revealing her gray-brown slacks and lighter tan turtleneck sweater. She smiles sweetly at Spencer when she makes eye contact with him. 

“Doctor.” She starts. “What are you doing here? I thought Professor Ricks cancelled today’s class?” It’s a simple question, but Spencer can’t help but pick up at the pity hidden underneath her questions. 

Spencer was a legend at the school, coming back from MIT with two extra degrees than he started with. Every teacher knew of him, students either hated him or looked up to him. Spencer tries not to think about it often. 

“Oh.” It’s one syllable, but the weight pulls Spencer back down into his head. “Guess I didn’t get the memo.” He huffs out a laugh and gets up off the floor. Professor Johnson steps back into her classroom after nodding at Spencer, bidding him a goodbye. 

No matter how much Spencer will read, it doesn’t really replace the human contact he gets with actually being in a classroom. He supposes he could bother Professor Wilson, but Spencer knows it’s his day off. 

There’s always the library, but he isn’t sure he could handle the judgemental stares of the librarians there. He looks at his watch. 

11:37. Guess he was sitting in that hallway longer than he thought. 

He spends about a couple minutes wandering the halls before that gets too constricting. It’s noon now, he could go get lunch. Take it to his dorm, spin a record and read more. 

That is how he spends most days. Reading.   
But it’s fun. He tried to convince himself. You get into a whole another universe. Implying that he dislikes his. Ugh, even thinking is hard. 

There is that abhorrent Walkman in his bag he could use with a fresh Claude Debussy cassette just waiting to be played. He plugs in his headphones and pops open the door. Fumbling with the tape a bit, he finally places it in the device and closes it. 

While he’s distracted, he’s bumped into. He looks up, expecting an apology but all he gets is a “dude, get an MP3 player or some shit.” From a snarky blonde walking away from him. Her friend laughs at her joke and Spencer rips his headphones off his head and shoves them back in his satchel. Back to square one. 

Despite the ever present self-hatred making the minutes feel like hours, it’s finally 2pm and Spencer is stilling in a booth at a coffee shop. 

He’s been here quite a few times, the barista makes his usual as soon as he steps through the door. He smiled politely and quietly paid the worker. He settled in his usual spot and waited. 

2pm came and went, still no (Yn).   
No worries, Spencer thinks, they were probably just caught up with something.   
Any evidence Spencer would dig up out of his mind would point to them just being a no-show, maybe they don’t actually care about their schooling after all…

Just before his mind begins to wander once more, the bell rings and in comes Yn. Dressed in straight leg jeans and a dark baggy sweater. Their hair has been straightened and around their neck is a puka shell necklace. The jeans are cuffed and on their feet are the same boots from yesterday. Spencer’s theory was correct. 

“You’re late.” He greets, getting (Yn)’s attention. 

“Hello to you too.” They retort. Rolling their eyes before walking straight past him to the counter, ordering some type of tea. They receive their cup and throw their burlap sack next to Spencer. They carefully place their tea on the table and scooch in next to him. 

Spencer gives her a look, something that he hopes convey for them to move. 

“What? You’re the one that chose the corner booth, and I don’t like my back to the door.” He sighs and just goes along with it. Trying not to think too much into the fact that Yn is used to being accommodated for.

“What even made you late?” 

“I woke up late.” That was a lie, Spencer could point it out from a mile away, they just didn’t want to be here. That’s fair, but there’s something about this person that makes him want to argue. 

“Oh you woke up late?” He repeats back, “please, you look like you just stepped off of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” The TV show that he caught a couple episodes of while visiting his mom, daytime reruns have really gone downhill. 

This comment makes Yn raise their eyebrows questioningly. 

“Like you’ve seen one episode in your life Mr. Law and Order.” Spencer looks down at his outfit self-conscientiously. It was his usual button-up and sweater vest. Paired off with a pair of khaki slacks. There’s a tan coat next to him and his belt matches the black of his converse. Oh I dress like a 38 year old man. “Whatever, what notes do you have?”

————

You have to admit that getting Spencer angry is very easy, especially when he just comes to it naturally. It must be some act of God to keep him content. 

He reads over the book you bought, seeming to only follow the imaginary line created by his finger. 

“Are you even reading that?” 

“Yes, of course. I can read about 20,000 words per minute.” This can’t be real. 

“That’s bullshit.” You say, but you not wanting him to flex his degrees in your face again makes you add a “but whatever you say, Doc.” 

“The average speed a human can read is 200-500 words per minute but the subconscious mind can process words at a much faster rate.” 

You leave the silence to fill the air. You really don’t have anything to say. But it’s this silence that draws his attention. 

“Wait, now you don’t have anything to say?” 

He smirks at you, but your eyes look elsewhere. The sun is hitting perfectly through the window, creating a halo effect around Spencer. Like some crappy romance novel, yuck. But you can’t help but look at his eyes either, just before you can grasp the color of them, he looks away. Yellow. You think, Another color to add. 

You tell him he didn’t actually have to read the book, it’s just some vocabulary terms that need reviewing as the written part of your test was done yesterday. He gawks but moves on, not necessarily complaining.

Taking a sip of your tea, you look at him expectantly. 

“What?” He answers your look. A lot more force than one would think too. 

“Nothing.” You say, defensively. “I’ve never really done this type of gig yaknow?” You fiddle with a ring on your finger. It’s just a thin band going around your thumb, it’s engraved on one side. The words, however, faded with time. Figures.

“Actually I don’t.” He slams your notebook closed, causing you to jump. 

“Hey man what’s your deal?” You’ve spent like a good 20 minutes just staring at your stupid notes and for what? So he could show off how fast he reads?

“My deal is that you don’t even seem to be trying.” Spencer starts, you don’t really retain any information, too busy focusing on the way his lips move around, seemingly in time with his hands. He’s still talking.

You shake yourself out of your tangent, you’re angry with him. Of course, he’s don’t nothing but try to show you up the entire time you’ve known him. 

“Listen, Doc.” You point your finger at his chest. He looks down at it and pouts. “I can’t focus right now, and honestly you just taking any chance to show me how stupid I am isn’t really helping.” 

To be honest, you’re not even sure where this anger is coming from, you guess if you had enough money for a therapist they would tell you, but now is not the time to think you’re crazy. 

“I’m not trying to do that!” He exclaims, pushing himself away from you. “Maybe you’re the one trying to make fun of me.” 

Woah, that was out of left field. You think even Spencer knows that as his face displays some sort of confusion. 

“Why the hell would I do that?” This rollercoaster sucks and it’s giving you a headache. You just want to go home and act like you don’t exist for the next 5 hours. 

“I don’t know… just nevermind it.” He drops it fast, but in that moment of vulnerability you realize something very important about the Doctor sitting next to you. 

Insecure, too young to have at least one PhD. This man most likely went to public school… you’re thinking too far into it now. He dropped it, so you must follow right? 

You’d like to think that the rest of the session went by just fine, you feel somewhat more prepared for the test than you were before the hour started. He seemed somewhat encouraging at times, well, about as much as you could be just reviewing material, but to each their own. 

“Do you have a cell phone or something? I honestly don’t know when I can be free again.” That’s the lie you tell Spencer and honestly, yourself. You totally just wanted this pretty boy’s number for studying. 

Somewhere in Spencer’s brain it processes that you asked a question, he quirks his eyebrows and scrunches his lips a bit. 

“Well..?” You follow up. After all patience has never come easy to you. 

“Oh yeah.” He reaches down into his satchel and fumbles around for a bit. Curiosity causes you to peak in at his actions. A small circular orange pad catches your eye. 

“Oh my god.” You reach down there with him. “Is this a Walkman?” You ask, grasping the plastic in your hands. Spencer flinches some but you pay no mind to it, you haven’t seen one of these in ages. Not since you used to go into your older brother's room and steal his. 

Just as you were about to pop open the tray, the device is snatched from your hands, you pout slightly. 

“Yes and it’s mine.” Spencer says, obviously somewhat guarding. You mumble an apology and sit back up in your seat. The moment now is over, leaving the booth to be filled with a pregnant pause. He places a standard Nokia on the table and looks to you. 

Your arms are crossed and you’re leaning back into the chair. Staring right back to the Doctor, you can practically see his patience flow out of him. The stare down is short lived,Spencer nods to it on the table, obviously expecting you to put your number in manually.

“Oh I’m sorry…” you trail off. “I didn’t know I could touch it.” You smirk at him, slouching further back in your seat. 

He groans, “Get up.” He gestures out of the booth for effect. You roll your eyes and follow his orders anyway. He flips open his own phone and asks you for your number, you wonder if he keeps his eyes down for a reason. 

You list off the 10 digits as you both walk out of the shop. You waved to the barista at the counter. They wave back kindly. Spencer holds the door open for you. 

“So I’ll get back to you.” He says, eyes still looking anywhere but your face.

“Right…” you look him up and down, studying him. He nods and gives you a thin-lipped smile. You turn your separate ways. But, something tells you have to get at least something else to ponder on before your next interaction. 

You think back to when you first stepped into the shop. You smiled. 

“Hey Spencer.” He turns around to face you, almost expecting it. “Men’s business casual looks are almost all about angles. You should consider tucking in your collar to not seem so boyish. It’s distracting” You grin at him as he sighs. 

“I’ll see you next time.” He says, hands subconsciously reaching to his collar. 

“Likewise.” You send him a loop-sided smile and watch as his pivots around and walks away. Slacks obviously too short for his lanky legs.


End file.
